Friday Firesmith – Rush Our Homicides

Last Wednesday, someone tried to kill me, twice. To some of you, this isn’t a surprise, but it had nothing to do with politics, red headed women, or the Oxford Comma. Instead, this all came about from me doing something that seems to freak people out because it’s so rarely done in this part of the world, and no, I’m not talking about using complete sentences or enunciating three syllable words. I drove according to the laws and regulations of driving a vehicle. This will get you killed in South Georgia.

When I go to work I use a different route than when I leave work. First, there are us people who get up early, make coffee and breakfast, shower, shave, and then travel at a sane pace knowing we’re going to be early. We also know the Others, who get up seventeen seconds before they’re going to be late, put on yesterday’s jeans and a shirt that was hanging on something in their bedroom, grab two Twinkies and a warm coke off the table as they rush out and hope no one sees them putting their shoes on with no socks as they’re driving.

I actually left a little early. I wanted to listen to some Bach on the road and I also needed to get some gas. There’s a window of time, just before seven-thirty, where the only people on the road are those who arrive early, like me or those whose work takes them on the road. We are a hard working bunch, as is anyone who takes the trouble to get up and make ready for the day, but we will soon beset by those who hit the roads like jackrabbits cranked on meth who have 110-volt wires glue to parts of their bodies that I cannot mention in mixed company. Suffice it to say these people are a hazard to anything and everything on the roads.

One of them tried to kill me. Twice.

The gas station I like to go to is perfect for getting into and getting out of. It’s on a corner where there’s a traffic light. I have the timing of this light down to a science. If the light is red on the side street I know it will be green on the main road for a full minute. If it’s green on the side road I know I have about twenty seconds to hit it before it turns. I have to be quick, but I do not have to be fast. I got this.

I make it out of the parking lot and onto the main road perfectly. Smooth as silk and now I’m heading back towards the road I have to turn left on to go to work. It’s red as I’m leaving the gas station and all I have to do is maintain my speed and I can make that light when it turns green.

I’m in the inside lane, the lane closest to the centerline, where I should be to turn left at the light. A white minivan pulls out of a driveway, crosses over the outside lane, and pulls out in front of me. Near Death Experience Number One. I have to swerve over to the outside lane to miss her. She sees me in her rearview mirror, panics, and pulls into the outside lane, nearly hitting me again. NDEN2.

What the actual f&^%?

I have no idea what to do or where to go and this woman stops, dead still, blocking me from doing much more that changing the music from Bach to Frank Zappa’s “Apostrophe” title track from that album. We will now ride with some Old School Guitar solo as ammo for the cursing that will continue until my butt unclenches from the seat of the truck.

The woman pulls away and I follow her. The light is red when we arrive at the next intersection. She can hear the guitar stalking her from behind, She knows she has failed in her assassination attempt and the Ghost of Frank Zappa will haunt her as my revenge.

It’s not Rocket Surgery, people.

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – The Little Red Haired Girl

It’s odd that I can remember the exact moment I first saw her. Moreover, if I really tried I could narrow it down to the day I met her, and even get the time down to an hour or so. It was the first day of school in my sophomore year in High School, 1976. I didn’t realize it but this girl and I would be drawn together, part, rejoin, part, and be drawn together again and again, until about 1982 or so, and then I would never see her again. Until this very moment, and this is really odd, I didn’t realize I only knew her for six years. In that time, I’m pretty sure we were together no more than a couple of dozen times. I cannot remember if we were ever together for any length of time longer than a weekend or something close.

The first words I ever spoke to her were, “Excuse me, but do you know you are barefooted?” and she did realize this, of course, but it was an excuse for me to speak to her, which was in and of itself pretty strange because I had a hell of a time speaking to girls that I did know, but even less a stranger. And so it began. She was a young freshman and I was an immature sixteen-year-old. We traded notes like little kids and stood close to one another when we talked. Our first date was the first time I had ever taken a girl to a real restaurant and then to a movie. I was so nervous in the restaurant I could have died. She kissed me on the cheek when we left. I still remember that.

Her hair was a golden reddish color, light in places, dark in others, and I remember being enthralled with the color of her eyes, which were a reddish amber color. I’ve never met anyone else who had eyes that color before.

High School was a blur to me. One class, one year, one bottle, one pill, it was all the same day, all the same people, all the same everything, all the time, and nothing changed. But it did. One day she and I walked to the end of the parking lot together. I had been on “restriction” confined to my room at home by my father for most of the school year and hadn’t seen her on the weekend in months. We had drifted apart. I was slipping out to the garage at night to steal liquor from my father and staying bombed most of the time. It was cold, incredibly cold, the wind was blowing and the day was overcast. We held hands inside my coat pocket and I felt her fingers tighten around mine, then she released me and stopped walking. “I’m pregnant”, she said and my mind tried to do math but couldn’t. “It isn’t yours”, she said and walked away, leaving me standing there.

It wasn’t the last time she would be pregnant and not the last time I was not the father. She miscarried the first, married the father of the second, and in the meantime she and I drifted together and apart, as we always did. I never saw the drugs and the alcohol as an issue and I will always wonder if it was that. I will always wonder if it was that I never wanted children. I will always wonder why she bothered at all if she wasn’t interested at all, why she kept coming back, and why she never stayed.

I joined the Army and was gone for a while. I saw her once more, in 1982, and then…that was it. I know she remarried, had another child, and her first became a mother and she a grandmother. In 2014, a friend of mine moved into a house just a half mile from her parent’s home and I stopped halfway in between the present and the past. Someone had told me she was in the front yard raking leaves and I stopped myself from going to see her again. This isn’t a fairy tale of two young and innocent lovers separated by time but rather the reality of where we lived and who we were.

You know what I really wonder? I wonder if when I was very young, if I had any idea what love was, and could have expressed it in any way other than sex, if I had something, anything to offer her other than beer and sex, if I could have made a difference.

I think I turned around that day because no matter how much I loved her there still won’t ever be an answer to that question.

That was high school sweetheart. What happened to yours?
Take Care,


Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – Origin of the Mutts

The Origin Of Dogs

In the beginning, somewhere around thirty thousand years ago, humans, who were one of the most violent and virulent predators who ever walked the planet, even then, decided to enter into an agreement with wolves, who were very large and very fast predators in their own right. No one knows how. No one knows why. All we do know is that it did happen and the end result was an entirely different species evolving; the dog.

There are two prevailing theories and both of them have enough fatal errors to be totally wrong, but then again, both have to have some truth in them. We’re blinded by the lack of evidence and the imperfect vision that we have of who we were back then.

Theory One: Wolves hung around human campsites and living places so they eventually got used to being around humans, and eventually they became dogs.

Problems with Theory One: Why in the name of Lassie’s left foot would a group of humans allow really strong, fast, and deadly predators hang around their campsites and living places?

Theory Two: Humans found some lost wolf pups and raised them as their own.

Problems with Theory Two: The puppies would still be wild when they grew up and they would still be prone to attacking small humans and returning to the wild.

Some issues here: Both theories take on a lot of water very fast because of one very simple and very fatal flaw inherent in both of them; the size of the wolf gene pool that would eventually breed towards domestication. When humans were out trying to domesticate cows they would have a lot of wild cows, pen them up, herd them with dogs likely, and the offspring would not be allowed to wander. That’s a herd sized gene pool. But with wolves, you cannot have a herd sized gene pool because wolves are predators. They compete, a lot, for food and they’re dangerous. Cows are dangerous but you can herd them and pen them. What kept the wolves in place long enough to become dogs and how did the gene pool stay large enough to allow the evolution?

Disclaimer: I do not know enough about this subject to present any facts or cite any material backing The Mike Firesmith Theory on the Beginning of Mutts. However, I am more than willing to allow anyone and everyone to present their own theory and poke at mine with sharp sticks.

To begin with, in order for the wolf to dog gene pool to be large enough to work you need a sizeable population of wolves. This means an even large population of human beings. I hereby declare that our early ancestors of 26,000 years ago, lived in much larger groups than we suspect they did. Instead of there being scattered group of hunter/gatherers living in small clans that wandered here and there, I think those groups must have consisted of hundreds of humans.

This would explain why every time humans arrived at a new island or continent, the megafauna went extinct fairly quickly. Instead of there being small groups of humans who hunted large animals into extinction it makes more sense there were larger groups of humans who did this.

Why this doesn’t work: There isn’t a scrap of evidence for it anywhere.
Why it does work: It explains the extinctions and it explains dogs.

Here’s the scene: You have a nomadic tribe wandering around hunting and gathering and raising kids. They kill to eat but they also kill to eliminate competition. Following in their wake of destruction is a pack of wolves who scavenge the animals the humans hunt. At this point, my theory doesn’t make sense unless there is something the humans are getting out of this. If the humans are eliminating competition and wolves certainly would be, then the wolves couldn’t hang around without the humans needing them for something.

Protection would be a good answer, but it’s been proven that 26,000 years ago humans were already laying waste to any and every predator that walked the earth and more than a few who flew and swam.

Yet suppose Tribe One had a pack of wolves that were following it and Tribe Two decided to move in and go to war with Tribe One. If the wolves defended Tribe One, or at least alerted Tribe One to the presence of Tribe Two, a symbiotic relationship could begin.

When wolves began protecting one group of humans from another group of humans, that pack of wolves became protected from humans. When one group of humans saw the wisdom in having wolves near, the Dawn of the Dogs was not far behind.

I welcome sharp pointy sticks and competing theories at this juncture.
Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – Unhappy Days

I never really liked the television show “Happy Days” but there never was one of those laugh track fueled sitcoms that did anything for me. I was never a television person, to begin with, because  books. Erin Moran was cute and she was popular but she fell into a downward spiral and one of the saddest things I remember seeing is when she got evicted from her trailer. That’s got to be an odd thing, you know, to go from being on a popular television series to being kicked out of a trailer. But Poe died both crazy and broke so writers take a hit on this sort of thing, too.

When Pete Duel killed himself in 1971, I was just ten years old. To me, it was totally unfathomable that someone who was on a television show might decide to end his life suddenly like that. But De Vinci’s last words were purportedly, “I have offended God and mankind because my work did not reach the quality it should have.”

Hemingway drank a lot. I’ve got a pretty impressive scale when I say someone drinks more than average so when I tell you someone has an alcohol problem you can pretty much bet that problem is serious. Along with a host of other issues, Hemingway’s penchant for inebriation likely fueled his mental health issues which led to suicide. Hemingway was a damn good writer. I have a pretty high bar for writing, too.

I’m not sure where Kathy Lucas is right now, or if she ever became famous for painting, or if she simply gave up, like so many people do when it comes to creativity. Quitting is a form a self- destruction that leaves the body alive, you know. I can’t speak to what it does to the soul. Kathy and her boyfriend Tom lived with me for a while in the mid 80’s and Kathy was a painter, and in fact, the first painter I ever had close contact with. She created this massive piece of art. Seriously, it was four feet tall and six feet long, canvas on a wooden frame, and it was glorious. But the subject matter made it even more intense; it was a painting with the point of reference behind a blonde child’s head. You could see the reflection of the kid’s face in the window of a candy store, and that alone was impressive. But there were a dozen jars of candy, each of them filled with colorful striped candy, gumballs of every hue, and they were in glass jars that reflected the child’s face or the candy next to it, and that made it glorious. The sun was shining from behind the child and created a shadow inside the display of the store’s name which wasn’t readable, but the fact it wasn’t, was part of the draw of the painting. All of these things made the painting magnificent.

I walked in one day and found Kathy curled up on the floor crying like Judas. The sobs were coming like she was giving birth to her grief. On the floor near her was a razor knife. The painting lay in ruins, slashed into a hundred pieces, viciously, as if attacked by a pack of four-year-olds seeking the candy within. It took me a full ten minutes trying to talk to Kathy before I realized she had destroyed her own painting with that knife. I spent the next eight years telling people she was one of the most insane people I had ever meet. Then I started writing. Maybe I was right about Kathy Lucas. But not about why she killed the painting. If I have to explain it you wouldn’t understand. I didn’t for a very long time.

Creativity is the greatest gift in the world, no matter what your medium might be. But it’s also a form of madness. It’s a burden. It’s an alternative universe. You’ll never have any happy days that are not sandwiched between the peanut butter of doubt and sadness that you aren’t good enough and you never were and you never will be, no matter what happens.

Erin Moran died of the complications of cancer, we are told, but the drinking, the drugs, and the despair certainly didn’t help her body any. Heroin didn’t kill Erin Moran. Alcohol didn’t kill Papa. The stones didn’t kill Virginia. If I have to explain to you what did you wouldn’t understand it. Sometimes, I still don’t.

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.



Friday Firesmith – Unchain Your Heart – Unchain Your Dog

If you hate Facebook I can’t say I blame you but before you write the most popular platform for social media off completely let me tell you that without Facebook, Dog Rescue doesn’t exist in its current form. Lilith was found through Facebook when she ran away. Hundreds, yes, hundreds, of posts go out each year about lost dogs and every Facebook user is another set of eyes out there who can spot a missing pet.

But it goes deeper than that. There are a half-dozen or so members of a local rescue group who read through Craig’s List and the local Lost and Found sites online looking for people who are giving away dogs and cats. Why? Because some of these people who are trying to get rid of pets are actually trying to get rid of animals they found, and we in Rescue try to reunite the owners with their lost pets. There are people online who “flip” dogs and cats but taking free pets and then selling them. You do not want to know what happens to those who aren’t sold quickly. There are people who try to start backyard breeding factories and we find those too. Dog Fighters hate us with a passion because when we hear about someone looking for Pitbulls, and they’ve been looking before, red flags go up. Nearly every activity that Rescue does gets cranked via social media.

I can’t remember when it happened, but one day the call went out, as it often does. This wasn’t a lost dog, or a bake sale, or the photo of someone dumping a dog on the side of the road (yes, that has happened, yes, more than once) but something different. A local vet was trying to get a “No tether” ordinance pass and was slated to speak at the Lowndes County Commissioners meeting. Show up, and wear gray! I went and bought a gray turtleneck and went to the meeting.

It was awesome.

I counted one hundred people there wearing gray. It was standing room only and the County Commissioners were clearly stunned. For every person standing, or sitting, in that room, they were looking at ten more who wanted to be there. That’s 1,000 votes. Elections could be lost by that amount. Or won. But clearly this was not something they expected and just as clearly, this was something they could ill afford to ignore.

The vet spoke her mind and very eloquently made her case against keeping dogs chained. How it is it to live a life that way, with just a few feet of freedom, outside in the rain and the cold, never to know the love and comfort of a family. It makes dogs aggressive and it makes them psychotic. They don’t get to socialize and they feel isolated and abandoned. A woman was killed by a dog that finally lost its mind and broke its chain. You could see it in their faces. They had never ever considered it. They looked around and saw standing room only, and nearly everyone wearing gray.

The ordinance was passed.

It isn’t perfect and getting it enforced is another matter. But now we have people saying out loud, “Dogs are not lawn ornaments.” And other people are listening.

Unite with fellow animal lovers and go out and do this. Make a stand, get people involved, and stand up in public and speak the truth as you know it. Social media gets a nod here for helping with the win, certainly, but people who wanted to make a difference showed up, and the government listened.

Unchain your heart, unchain your dog, and get involved.
Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – The Sins of Elizabeth Thomas

To begin with, let’s get the facts out into the open here; a fifteen-year-old female human is a child, legally speaking. She cannot buy cigarettes, beer, lottery tickets, or a gun. However, there’s some legal trickery that goes on when it comes to little girls and marriage in Tennessee.

“Tennessee: The age of consent is eighteen. With parental consent, parties can marry at age sixteen. Under special circumstances, younger minors can receive a license to marry. Common law marriage is not recognized.

Marriage consent law by state  (note there is no lower limit to (“younger minors”)

“Special Circumstance” is a term to describe pregnancy, which means in Tennessee, it is illegal for a teacher to run off with a student to have sex, because she is far too young to understand what’s going on, yet it is perfectly legal for her to marry the teacher (with her parent’s consent and a judge who is agreeable) even though having sex with her would have normally gotten him at least ten years in prison.

Take a moment to consider what it is like to be a ffifteen-year-oldgirl in High School. You have to compete with all the other girls in the class, and the older upperclass females, and at the same time, the guys who you are competing for are testosterone driven young teenage boys whose view of dating is driven by porn videos and a president that says as long as you’re famous you can grab them by the pussy.

 “There is only one princess in the Disney tales, one girl who gets to be exalted. Princesses may confide in a sympathetic mouse or teacup, but they do not have girlfriends. God forbid Snow White should give Sleeping Beauty a little support. Let’s review: princesses avoid female bonding. Their goals are to be saved by a prince, get married, and be taken care of the rest of their lives.”

― Peggy Orenstein, Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches from the Frontlines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture

 So we teach young men that young women are prey animals to be taken and bragged about. We teach young women that other young women are the enemy and that they need a male to rescue them from…themselves? Their parents? Everyone else?

Elizabeth Thomas clearly bought into that idea, and she bought into it hard.

The law taught Elizabeth Thomas that marriage could save her lover from the crime of pedophilia because it’s okay to have sex with an underaged girl if you’ve gotten her pregnant and then marry her. Pay attention to this because it’s telling very young women it’s illegal to violate and prey upon a young woman, unless you’re married to her.

Take a moment to consider how young women feel about this sort of law.

Elizabeth Thomas was a prey animal for the young men at her school. Elizabeth Thomas was the enemy of every girl in that school who competed to have the prettiest dress, the most revealing outfit, the best make-up, the skinniest thighs, the best bathroom selfie, and sexist smile, and none of this, not one damn bit of it, speaks to her self-worth as a human being.

The only sin of Elizabeth Thomas is she was born female in our society where her self worth isn’t measured in intelligence or skill at craft or service to a cause but rather in her ability to be the princess.

We failed to protect this little girl.   

Take Care,


Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – The Sins of Mike Firesmith

The reason Internet Trolls exist was brought into focus very sharply for me back in 1997 when I became one. This was back when there wasn’t an overwhelming number of internet sites that allowed interaction between people who didn’t know one another and there was little or no way to track down a person when they appeared. That was back in the days when I was a militant Atheist, and I would appear on some Christian message board and tell the people there they were going to go to Hell for spending so much time on their computers and so little time out in the real world saving souls. I discovered that almost any passage from the Bible I quoted would work, because there are always going to be those people who can figure out a way that it makes sense, no matter what’s going on at the time.

Here’s how it breaks down: You have a small group of people who react favorably. These people will believe the Troll is real and the message the Troll brings, and they will defend it. There will be a minority of people who realize the Troll is a Troll and attack the Troll. The people defending the message have to defend the messenger. A flame war breaks out and each side gets more polarized with each message sent.
There are a majority of people who are alienated and leave. The Troll wins by destroying the site totally.

Needless to say, I am no longer a Troll or a Militant Atheist. Mostly, I’m a writer with an opinion and with a friend who will let me write in public.

Now, here’s the tricky part; I do know a lot about three things, even if you do not agree with me, you have to admit I know the subject matter; American Politics, World History, and Dogs. I see American Politics as a function of the process of history. No president has ever operated outside of the system and none ever will. The same factors that act upon the Great will also act upon the Less Than Average. The same goes for both houses of Congress, and the nation as a whole.

When I write about Dogs, or Snakes, or things that happened in my past, or things I have witnessed in my life, I can count on getting maybe ten hits on the article. Five on them will be mine.

When I write about American Politics, no matter how badly people claim they hate it when I do, the numbers climb upwards around fifty, and about ten of them are mine. Commenting to tell me you hate me is the same as commenting to tell me you love me, in that it’s two pages hits that feeds Gus and Trixie.

As long as Friday Firesmith keeps getting more hits than any other funny photo or interesting video on the site, I’m more than willing to bet Jon isn’t going to boot me, no matter how loud the howls may get, and I’m also willing to bet those who like me outnumber those who hate me, because I’ve met some of these people in real life, and they love my dogs. As an aside, I don’t give a damn who you vote for as long as you treat your spouse, your children, and your dogs well. I can like you and maybe even drink with you if you treat other people well.

I’ve been paying attention to American Politics since Nixon. I was eleven when he resigned and even at that young age I thought he was the most evil person to ever hold the office and I still do. The war in Viet Name ended when I was fifteen, and even at that young age, I had no desire to go over and fight that war. I still have no desire to go to war, and lacking the impetus for war, I also lack the hypocrisy to wish it on others.

So, until the masses start showing more love for dog essays and my reflections on a red-haired girl I was in love with in High School, I’m going to keep doing what works for Gus and Trixie. To prove my point, I’ll post something on her next week and see what happens.

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – The Shining City on the Hill

When Ronald Reagan was President, he decided to bomb Libya in general, and in particular to send a message to Muammar Gaddafi, who claimed Reagan was trying to kill him, and that might be true. It didn’t have a dramatic effect on how Libya did business, but it did tear up some Libyan assets and it did let folk know that Reagan would shoot at you. I didn’t much like the man as President but that was one thing that Ronald Reagan did that I thought was important; those people who do not respect you ought to fear you if you are President. Reagan had a pretty good idea of what was going on around him, at least early in his presidency. There are those who say that the Libyans were tipped off. It’s interesting that there were Russian ships in the harbor at Tripoli that night and the Russian and the Libyans were pals.

Of course, Twitter didn’t exist back then, but I cannot see Reagan doing this:

We’ve gone from The Great Communicator to the Big Twit, apparently.

Reagan, when asked if he thought the Iranians, who were holding 44 Americans hostage, were afraid of him, he said, and I am paraphrasing, “We’re not afraid of them and they aren’t afraid of us” and then he smiled and said no more. The same day Reagan took the oath of office the Iranians released the hostages. I don’t see him doing anything like this:

Reagan, for all his faults in what he did in office, never came off sounding like he was a shot of espresso away from hysteria. Also, he had a pretty good rapport with Congress, except when he got caught in the Iran-Contra Affair, which isn’t relevant to this post. Reagan was smooth when dealing with opponents. His “There you go again” and “I won’t use my opponents age against him” citing “inexperience” when asked why someone younger than he might a better president. This was not classic Reagan:

Of course, while candidate Reagan was never at a loss for words and sometimes harsh with his criticism of those he was running against or those in office, Reagan was a True Believer. He would have never taken sides with any other country against someone in office in this country. He once called the regime in the old Soviet Union, “an Evil Empire”. Here’s Trump, early on, slobbering…

I’m pretty sure that whatever happened in Syrian missile attack was done with the consent and the approval of Trump’s “best friend”. Whatever has happened or will happen, none of it is going to go on without Trump contradicting what he once condemned. I’ve been watching politics since Richard Nixon was president and I cannot remember anyone holding that office who was even remotely as clueless in foreign affairs as this nutcase.

Uh huh.

I said it before and I will say it again; I never liked Reagan as a President, but the man believed in this country. Ronald Reagan, in explaining what his vision of The United States of America said we would be like a “shining city on a hill” that the rest of the world would see how a free people lived.

Mr. Trump, no one can see your vision because it doesn’t exist. You’ve taken the party of Reagan and sold it to the highest bidder. You’ve become an international joke and a national embarrassment.

You, sir, are no Ronald Reagan.

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – The sins of Elizabeth Rodriguez

Wow. You talk about someone having a very bad day. Elizabeth Rodriguez decided to drop three of her friends off at a stranger’s home, have them break into the house and steal things, and then sell the stuff and get a lot of money. And this was going to happen in Oklahoma, which is actually only nineteenth in the country for guns per capita with 12.3 guns per 1,000 people. That’s nearly one and a quarter guns per 100 people or a 1.23 chance in 100 you are going to meet an armed person in a break in. Or find a gun in a break in. Which really means you are as likely to meet someone who is armed, and obviously not in the mood to talk about the virtues of gun control with you as you are to get a free gun.

Zachary Peters, who happened not only to be one of those people with 1.23 guns, is also one of the people who owns an AR-15, and clearly, knew not only how to use it but when to use it and he opened up on the three guys who kicked in his door with the intention of robbing his house and taking his 1.23 guns. If the one gun you have in your 1.23 gun collection is an AR-15, you’re very likely not to have it taken from you if it’s loaded and you’re trained.

All three of these men are now dead. None of them were over twenty-one years old, the youngest was sixteen. Breaking and entering isn’t child’s play.

One of them, wounded and bleeding badly, made it out of the house and back to the car, and seeing her wounded buddy, Liz left the scene in a hurry. We can suppose she heard the gunshots.

Later, Elizabeth Rodrigues called the cops and spilled her guts. According to Oklahoma law, she can be, and likely will be, charged with three counts of first-degree murder. She is culpable because she drove the three there to rob the house and now she has to accept the consequences of her actions that day. This is a mug shot of Elizabeth Rodriguez. She is twenty-one years old right now. I wrote this, and I posted this whole thing this week so you can look into this woman’s eyes.

This is what it looks like to be terrified. Three people are dead right now because of her involvement in a crime. She left one of them to bleed out and die. A man slightly older than she has to live with the idea he’s killed three people, and Elizabeth here, judging by the look on her face, realizes that she’s going to prison for the rest of her life, at age twenty-one.

But then again, “Capital punishment is a legal penalty in the U.S. state of Oklahoma. The state has executed the second largest number of convicts in the United States (after Texas) since re-legalization following Gregg v. Georgia in 1976. Oklahoma also has the highest number of executions per capita in the country.” —Wiki

Personally, I think this is the kind of case the Death Penalty was made for. But then again, at age twenty-one, life without parole is one hell of a long hard road.

Either way, Liz, you bought this ticket and paid for it with someone else’s blood.

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.